


all that glitters

by sylvainplath



Series: Dimitri/Sylvain Week 2020 [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Familial Abuse, GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF THE WELL. SYLVAIN IN THE WELL. WARNING, Hallucinations, M/M, One World Two Sylvains, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Repressed Longing for ur Childhood bff, Suicidal Thoughts, Time Travel, descriptions of character death, extreme self-loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:28:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22776412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylvainplath/pseuds/sylvainplath
Summary: Day 6 - past/future.Sylvain wakes up from a Miklan Nightmare to realize he's 5 years in the future.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: Dimitri/Sylvain Week 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620286
Comments: 9
Kudos: 130





	all that glitters

**Author's Note:**

> title has nothing to do w fic i just like the word glitter  
> My suuuuper late entry for day 6, but its fine ignore that. : - )  
> Graphic depiction of a nightmare involving childhood trauma & familial abuse at the beginning. If you want to skip this, word search “he forces himself into.” However, there are references to this throughout the fic, though they are less graphic. If that’s something you don’t want to see, might wanna skip this fic.  
> Some things that are mentioned briefly in the fic are my own HCs of what happened during the time skip, just in case that’s ew for u.

Sylvain can’t see anything. The air is cold and stifling. He shivers, wraps his arms around himself. Below his waist he feels numb. A mounting fear clutches him by the gut. He fumbles with his hair as a distraction, a method to ground himself as he readies to explore his environment.

His heart beating him into nausea, Sylvain reaches out for a wall or furniture that might tell him where he is. All around, the walls are cobblestone and they curl in on Sylvain. The room he’s in is tiny - the circle is only twice as wide as he is. Stilted, terrified, he lowers his arms down to his waist, hoping that what he finds won’t spread the numbness to his hands. It doesn’t. His hands delve into icy water, giving him shivers that he can certainly feel. He’s clearly been sitting in this water for sometime, enough that the cold is numbing him. Well, at least he’s learned something.

The water begins to rise, sloshing wildly over Sylvain and he kneels to keep it from hitting his face. His teeth chatter. Being unable to see is terrifying him - it reminds him so much of being with Miklan as a young boy, of all the places Miklan liked to lock him up in. The closet, the basements, the well.

The well. 

He’s in a well. He’s in _the_ well.

The water begins to freeze over, solidifying near his feet and _rising_. He clutches at the ivy growing out of the sides of the well, for something to hold on to, to pull himself out with, but the ivy snaps and leaves him tangled in ice. He is seized with awful panic that cramps his gut and roots him still at the bottom of this well. It matters little now - the water is up to his neck, as hopelessly cold as his - 

He wakes up hyperventilating, flashes up into a sitting position in his bed. _Oh goddess_ , he thinks. He’s in his dorm room. It’s warm, he can see, and Miklan isn’t here. The relief he feels hits him so deeply he collapses limply back into bed. 

_Miklan is dead, goddamn it. He’s dead._

Sylvain clenches his fists, brings them to his mouth and _bites_ . Seiros, _fuck this_. Months have passed since Miklan’s death. Months. They were never close, there was never any love between them. Sylvain’s childhood idolization of Miklan was hopeless and so far past him now, he wishes so very much that he could strip himself of that relationship. Keep the guilt, the understanding of what his privilege as a crest-bearer caused, but forget the brother. The scraps of love, the breath-stealing grief, the fear of Miklan’s end. He can’t bear them.

He feels he can’t cope with this much longer. But he can. He always can. The tears in his chest are always grotesquely mended. Like a graft, with his own hands, his own heart, he will always, eventually, pull the pieces together again and suture them with other parts of himself. He trembles with relief, with fear and loathing. He’s dripping with sweat.

He forces himself into a sitting position. Tries to calm his hyperventilating with deep breathing. Two, three minutes of it. When his heart isn’t beating so fast he’s worried he’ll pass out, he towels the sweat off himself and wipes away his tears. A walk and a bath is what he needs.

He pulls on a wrinkled dress shirt that was meant for the laundry. It’s the middle of the night, and he’s only going on a walk. Strangely...it’s a bit loose on him. He doesn’t remember it fitting this way when he took it off last. But he needs to clear his head, so he ignores that and leaves his room wearing his loose shirt.

In his urgency, he closes his door with too much force. He’ll probably wake someone up. Dimitri, who’s only settled in the hours after everyone else has been fast asleep. Sylvain hopes that he hasn’t startled him. He hasn’t slept in days. Or Felix, who will yell at him, or Claude. Claude’s never in his room anyway, so Sylvain won’t waste time on feeling bad for that. 

He walks quickly, the halls of the dormitory and the grounds outside blurry around him. He can’t stop, if he stops -

Something will happen. He doesn’t know what.

He shuts his eyes for only a moment, but in that moment, he walks into a pile of rubble and stubs all of his toes. He yelps, jumping, but that only makes it worse. _What is_ _wrong_ _with me_? He sits down on the cement, wherever he is, to regain his bearings. He takes a moment to breathe, looking around the night he’s surrounded by. 

He’s outside the dining hall. Strange, the last place he noticed was the courtyard outside the first floor dormitory. He’s very out of sorts tonight...but he also hasn’t had such a graphic dream about the well in a few weeks. He’s outside the dining hall, near the stairs leading down to the lake. He’s sitting next to a pile of rocks. 

Rocks?

Upon closer inspection, they aren’t rocks, they’re rubble. Hunks of cement and brick. Presumably they’re from the balcony, but Sylvain is doubtful. There’s no reason for the stairs to be damaged so. They were fine just a few hours ago. It rouses suspicions in him - he’s been wary of...most of the people at the monastery. That weird Abyss guy. Lady Rhea and Seteth, specifically, but also Claude, Edelgard, and Hubert too. You’d be a fool not to be wary of Hubert. He doesn’t hide his ill intent (but privately, Sylvain thinks Hubert is probably weaker than anyone sees). Also, he’s hot. It wouldn’t surprise Sylvain to find that someone had been tearing the school apart in the middle of the night. 

But he would think they’d be more subtle about it. 

His feet no longer throbbing, he heaves himself up in a standing position again. It shouldn’t be this hard, but he’s horribly shaken still. He wanders away, down the steps and through the pier, the markets, the stables. Eventually he finds himself in the grass outside the cathedral.

The carts that are usually outside, the barrels and other such materials, aren’t there. That alone isn’t incredibly concerning, but this isn’t Sylvain’s first midnight walk. He knows where things ought to be. The gate near the entrance is broken in places and rusting. That is most definitely strange...Sylvain feels like he’s stepped on ice, sharp and unquenchably anxious. In a good way or a bad way he is not sure - a bit of both. Worried for what is going on, and interested. Excited, for something outside of school life and nobility. That is why he craves battle, often. It’s something real, that matters. At the end of Sylvain’s life and the lives of everyone he knows, no one will care about any of their school days. They’ll see it all meant nothing.

His eagerness outweighs his apprehension. He edges inside the cathedral - creeps to the side again, away from the gate, to enter through the door near the advice box. It’s dark, nothing to see with except the moonlight spreading through the stained glass windows.

As though by the will of the Goddess, the light of the moon shines directly onto an enormous pile of rubble where the head of the cathedral should be. In front of it… a hulking figure, a tall ball of black fur. Shining black metal. Sylvain allows the prick of his fear to grow, then.

The cathedral is in ruins. Some menacing being stands in front of the rubble. Sylvain hasn’t seen anyone since he’s woken up. He’s alone with a likely enemy. It’s like....the well again. The closet, the basements. He came here for solace, for clarity, but he’s as anxious as he started. 

He tries to figure out what he should do, how he should prioritize his options. This figure is definitely dangerous, and Sylvain has no way of knowing if he’ll encounter more strangers if he tries to leave. Parts of the monastery are destroyed; places he can think of going to may not even be here anymore. Which is… strange, the more he thinks of it. He’s already accepted that bizarre things have happened in his sleep - how else would all this destruction occur without anyone waking? He concludes that his best option might be to attempt to return to the dorms. Anywhere else is too open and big except for the offices, and he has no clue who he could run into in an office. 

Mind made, Sylvain turns back, steps silent. He almost makes it to the door when he is frozen in place by a bone-shaking roar. 

“ **Who goes there**.” Screamed like a command, in a dreadfully familiar, rumbling rasp. 

Sylvain’s knees feel ready to collapse again. He’s trying not to make any noises, but he’s so shaken he isn’t fully aware of his surroundings. Before he knows it he’s pinned to a cathedral wall, sharp gauntlets tight around his neck, cracking the marble behind him. This creature is _strong_. 

“State your case or I will rip your throat out _now_.” 

Sothis, this man sounds - he sounds like…

The man pulls back to look at Sylvain. His gauntlet still clutches Sylvain’s neck, he can barely wheeze, but he’s far enough away that Sylvain can see him too. And oh.

Oh. His blue eye. His ragged, long blonde hair. His unnatural strength. 

Oh. _Dimitri,_ Sylvain realizes, with mounting despair. It peaks as the sharp wail that begs to be free from his throat.

For a brief, tiny moment, Not-Dimitri’s eye flashes with knowledge, with surprise that suits the Dimitri Sylvain knows. 

“Sylvain?” he asks, but then his face closes off. “You _dare_ try to taunt me by posing as one of my people? You must be the witch. Or _that woman’s_ follower. ” 

None of this makes any sense. Sylvain doesn’t know who the witch is, or that woman, or her follower. He doesn’t know this Dimitri, who can’t be Dimitri. He has to be dreaming. But he can’t pinch himself awake because Not-Dimitri does it for him. The claws of his gauntlets pierce his neck, softer than they should, but still drawing blood. It doesn’t hurt much, just feels like a nick from his razor when he’s shaving. 

“Well?” Dimitri growls. His gauntlets clench tighter. “Have you no excuse? No pitiful tale? Nothing to say before I rip your limbs from your torso?” 

Sylvain is dizzy. Not-Dimitri is so close to him, his body heat shuddering through his armor and enveloping Sylvain’s brain with it. His breath is rank, his hair greasy and streaked with dirt, flaky dark red blood. His cloak is matted, full of mud and blood too. His jaw is so defined, and it’s this that fills Sylvain’s chest with warmth. His bangs fall over his eyes, but at this proximity, he can see so clearly the black leather patch that hugs his right eye.

It hurts to see him this way. Missing an eye. He got hurt, somewhere in between years, his eye was destroyed, ripped out, torn to bleeding pieces. Regardless of whether this is a dream or not, Dimitri’s been hurt terribly. Clearly with no one to help him, to protect him or heal him. The pain of this being a reality needs no explanation. His prince, a man who used to be a dear friend. If he’s dreaming, he’s a little horrified. He has no idea what in his subconscious would create this image unprompted. It is not something he has ever wanted to see, nor something he knew to be afraid of.

“Your Highness… it _is_ me. I’m not sure what’s going on, but it’s me. Sylvain. I’m 20, it’s the Ethereal Moon, and you’ll be 18 soon, ” Sylvain says, fixes his palms into unassuming lines, hoping to show his neutral intent. Trying for facts, details, something Dimitri could let slip about when they are, or distract him from killing Sylvain.

“What in the hells are you talking about?” His Highness barks. “I know not what year it is, but I am long passed 18 years sold, you cretin, try again. I am not even alive.”

“How are you not alive?” Sylvain is blatant in his skepticism. He wants it to startle Dimitri. Anything he can to calm Dimitri, he will try.

“There are centuries old corpses with more life in them than I.” 

“That’s not possible.”

It’s seeming to work, sort of. Dimitri’s visible brow furrows, a little elegant even here and now. He’s truly thinking now, at any rate. For a moment, Sylvain feels like cheering. But then Dimitri’s head turns to the right, his blind spot, and he swats gently in that direction. He makes a bunch of small noises; clicks his tongue, moans desolately, whimpers like he’s going to cry.

“Glenn,” he starts. Sylvain feels the blood drain from his face. He knows this still haunts Dimitri, but he’s never...said so. He inhales. Dimitri, despite being in his face, doesn’t notice. “Glenn, I am sorry. I did not… I did not realize it was you, and I should have, I am so sorry.”

He loosens his hold on Sylvain’s neck. “This - this...wretch is pretending to be Sylvain! I cannot allow it.”

Dimitri wails. His head slams into the wall beside Sylvain’s head. He hears an awful crunch, and in that moment, would like nothing more than to lift Dimitri’s face and tend to the wound he’s just given himself. Check his missing eye while he’s at it. He doubts very much that this Dimitri ever took proper care of it. 

“I do not know who sent him! I suspect it was Cornelia or Hubert. I… No, I do not have any proof. He has barely spoken two sentences to me. 

_Hubert?_ What is Edelgard doing?

“Father, you are right, of course...I am deeply sorry for my insolence. But how can I believe it is Sylvain? I have not seen him in so long...if he is alive, I don’t know what he looks like, but surely he mustn’t merely look the same!”

If he’s alive? Sylvain has known Dimitri has been alone for some time, but to hear that Dimitri doesn’t even know if he’s living? Are they now so far apart that Dimitri doesn’t even know this simple fact?

“I am, I am! I have not earned it, but _please_ believe me.” 

Dimitri apologizes so much now. It’s so wrong, he’s a good boy, why’s he closed in on himself so much? It makes Sylvain feel queasy. Where are his people? Where is Sylvain? Sylvain will _always_ take care of Dimitri. His hands reach out to touch him, but he doesn’t do that. He wants to hold him, to tell him he needn’t apologize to phantoms. And Goddess, these phantoms are cheap imitations. Glenn would never allow Dimitri to be so meek, would never make Dimitri apologize so much.

Dimitri lets Sylvain go entirely. His eyes glimmer. “It’s really him? I can trust him? He’s mine? ...Was mine. I no longer have any people. They are that witch’s.” _Finally,_ he looks at Sylvain. “...Sylvain?”

“It’s me, Your Highness,” he says. Hesitantly, he holds his arms out. “Can I...can I touch you?”

Sylvain sounds like he’s going to cry even to his own ears. Dimitri nods with wonder. Sylvain holds his Prince’s waist, embracing him. His head slots perfectly on Dimitri’s armored shoulder, made blunt by the cover of his cloak. Oh, shit, Dimitri is taller than him. Barely, but enough. It’s cute, and strange, and… appealing.

“Your Highness, you’re taller than me now!” Sylvain laughs into Dimitri’s neck.

He looks like a confused lamb. “I am… sorry?”

“Uh-uh. Don’t be sorry. I like it. Look at you,” he pets Dimitri’s hair. “All grown up. I like your hair.”

Dimitri chokes on his saliva. Sylvain is sure there must be a terrible blush on his face. “I… have not been called that in many years.”

“Why? Why are you all by yourself?” Sylvain asks softly.

Sylvain didn’t really see the warmth in Dimitri’s face until it was gone. “First, why are you here? What’s the meaning of this, being so young?”

Dimitri shrugs Sylvain off. Sylvain’s body wants to curl around him again, but he doesn’t. He hasn’t been so close to Dimitri in years. “I don’t know. I had a… nightmare, so I went on a walk, but when I got to the cathedral I saw all the rubble and realized something was wrong.”

“So then, when you fell asleep you were… enrolled in the academy?”

“Yeah. Like I said, it’s Ethereal Moon. Your birthday is soon. Dance competition, too, and all that sort of thing.”

“I see… I am likely correct, then, that this is the result of magic.”

“You mentioned Cornelia and Hubert. Your Highness, what’s going on? Why would Hubert do something like this? Who is Cornelia?”

Dimitri roars out of nowhere. Sylvain is scared shitless, really, a guy should warn before he roars like a lion. Oh, haha. A lion. Dimitri really is a lion king now, isn’t he?

“Uh...Your Highness?” he tries. 

Dimitri jolts like he’s woken from a dream. “I... who are… oh. It is a long story.”

“I don’t even know what year I’m in, Your Highness. I think I have time.”

Dimitri looks at him again, gruff but with tenderness he doesn’t have when he’s talking about others. It’s so warm, so sweet. Even his Dimitri doesn’t look at him like this. But his Dimitri doesn’t look at him at all, unless to scold.

“Very well,” Dimitri says. “Follow me.”

Dimitri walks a little ways out into the courtyard, stands with his elbows resting on the wall overlooking the grounds below. Sylvain sits on the grass at his feet, resting his head on Dimitri’s armored thigh. Dimitri’s not used to physical tough like this, and he’s obviously disconcerted. But he doesn’t make Sylvain move, and he doesn’t say anything. Sylvain muses that he’s probably too shocked to respond the way he would if someone from his own time period sat at his feet and hugged his legs.

“It’s 1185,” His Highness starts. “The millenium festival was meant to be...sometime soon, I believe - I am not entirely certain, I have hardly kept track of time since my exile began - but Garreg Mach has been abandoned, so it undoubtedly is not happening. Still, I came here because… I… I do not remember why. But I know that it was important once.” 

“Your exile?”

Dimitri struggles to keep his emotions in check. His fists clench the wall he rests on, crushing the bannister he touches. He gathers the chunks in his hands and throws them, so hard they hit a wagon far away and break the wheels on it. They spin away and down a staircase. He trudges across the grass, pacing to and fro as he tells his story.

Edelgard betrayed the Church, started a war. A five year war, which is not yet over, has killed Dedue and destroyed the continent. Cornelia is the woman who took Fhirdiad from Dimitri… and ordered his execution. More than all of those things, Dimitri is most furious over Dedue. He won’t reveal much about it, but Sylvain learns that he died saving Dimitri, that he died by Cornelia’s hand. 

When he’s said all that he’s willing, he tells Sylvain to rise and stand. Sylvain does, like he is compelled, bewitched. In a sense, he is. All in Faerghus are a bit bewitched by their kings. To the grave and hell, anyone would follow their king. Sylvain rises. Dimitri stops pacing, faces Sylvain. He stands tall, imposing. His presence feels double Sylvain’s height, and not mere centimeters. He is truly a king now. 

“I have no reason to doubt that you are my old Sylvain. I’ll not share anything further with you, and what I have is common knowledge. When the sun rises, I will take you safely somewhere else and if this is not all delusions, you will have to find your own way to your time. Is this understood?”

Sylvain has an inexplicable urge to kneel. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He can’t help that - Dimitri is so very much his king. What else can he say?

“Very well. But I am no king.” 

He skulks back into the cathedral.

* * *

Sylvain doesn’t fall asleep. He wanders the academy grounds all night, sometimes slipping into an exhaustion, disbelief driven daze. When the sun rises, he returns to the cathedral, where Dimitri said they’d meet. He isn’t there. 

A short time later, he finds him in the Goddess Tower. He makes his way up the stairs, planning to head in with ample warning noise for Dimitri, but he’s having a conversation up there. At first, he thinks Dimitri must be talking to his ghosts - he hears him yelling at the professor. But the professor answers in return.

_Huh?_

Is Sylvain mad now too? He would not be surprised. And sometimes, he feels like Miklan still lingers over him like an itchy cloak.

“First Sylvain, now you? Stay out of my head!” 

“Dimitri…” the Professor sounds wounded, their voice no different than it was yesterday when they told Sylvain it was almost time to learn Ragnarok. “What happened here?”

Dimitri growls on and on about the professor being dead, about this person being an Imperial spy sent to kill him. He threatens to kill the professor, but after fifteen minutes or so of their imploring, he calms. Indifferently, he tells Byleth he’s going to meet with Sylvain, and Byleth insists on accompanying him.

“And what’s this about Sylvain, Dimitri?” they ask. 

Dimitri grumbles low and angry, sounding every bit a lion king. Sylvain cannot get over this - how wholly he encompasses all that every Fhirdiad tale said he would be. This simple noise freezes all in their tracks; beyond this, he does not answer the Professor. For the time being, Byleth doesn’t prod further. 

Sylvain makes himself known. “Knock knock,” he calls out, without knocking, ascending the last few steps. “It’s me.”

Byleth stares at him. “Sylvain?... I was under the impression that it is currently 1185.”  
  
“Haha, yeah…” he scratches his head. “Seems like it is. I don’t have a damn clue what’s going on.”

“Hm. Come here. I want to see for myself.”

He’s already been over this with Dimitri. But it can’t be helped. He stands face to face with his old professor, towers over them. They say, “It is you.”

“Uh, professor? As relieving as it is to hear that, how do you… know? 

They stare impassively at him. “I’ve merged with Sothis. I know.” Then, they stand on their toes to ruffle Sylvain’s hair. “You’re my student.”

Sylvain has the strangest urge to squirm away and hide. He turns his head, bashfully looking off to the corner of the tower. He’s feeling awkward. He isn’t used to it.

A garish, throaty noise. Dimitri stomps between Sylvain and the Professor. “If you do not plan on following, I shall go on my own.” He storms down the stairs. 

Sylvain races behind him, unwilling to lose him, and Byleth sprints down last.

* * *

They meet bandits in a clearing just outside the monastery. The way Dimitri fights is magnificent and terrifying. Several moments, Sylvain finds himself breathless from watching. Enemies fly at Dimitri, but they do nothing to him. He shrugs them off like water on muskrat’s fur. Slews of them are gone in minutes.

They’ve brought reinforcements, however. Sylvain is busy fighting off two with a worn out lance when a heavy gust of wind magic whirls the two bandits into oblivion. Sylvain snaps his head back to see who cast the spell. No matter that he knows five years have passed, it is still hard to comprehend when Annette smiles up at him with long hair she’s let down and a lively dress of teal and white, Mercedes with a bob behind her, concentrated on casting a physic over Dimitri, who is already yards away.

“Wow, Sylvain, you don’t look any different!” Annette giggles.

“Well, you do.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing bad! You just look cute.” A wink for good measure. 

“Lalala I can’t hear you, Mercie, is someone talking? Oh hey, there’s Ashe! And… father.”

Annette is every bit the wind magic specialist, whirling about from place to place, thought to thought. After she's done looking sadly at her father, she turns back to Sylvain. She pounces on him and hugs him quickly, firing off another spell while she hugs. 

“I’m so sorry! I got distracted. Anyway, I was just kidding. I’m so happy to see you! We’ll catch up when the fighting’s done, ‘kay?” She kisses his cheek.

“Okay…” he mumbles, but she’s gone. Well, good for her. She seems like she’s grown a lot more confidence.

“Something’s off about you. I know it’s been a few years, but are you alright, Sylvain?” Mercedes asks, glancing at him over her shoulder while she sends fires in the opposite direction.

“Oh, yeah. Peachy,” he says. She looks at him like he imagines a mother would. “I mean it! Kinda. I’ll explain later, it’s a long story, okay?”

She hums. “I’ll hold you to it. It’s good to see you again.”   
  
She, too, kisses his cheek.

* * *

In groups, all the Blue Lions show up. Gilbert and Ashe, Annette and Mercedes, Felix accompanied by Ingrid and… other Sylvain. Sylvain sort of, possibly, gags a little bit when he sees him. His hair is parted differently, with new scars on his face, and his own style of armor. Red and green. Objectively, maybe, he doesn’t look bad. But just looking into his face, his ugly amber eyes, the small scars on his jaw, it makes him ill. It’s revolting. The world is poor enough for one Sylvain Jose. With two in this place, it is no wonder things have fallen to shit and the king is mad. Sylvain hardly looks into the mirror on a daily basis. Having to face one in such detail, in vivid life, is cruel. The Goddess is cruel. He knows it now, as he knew it in the well, in the closet, the basements. 

He feels tense, ready to snap, his spine full of cricks begging to be flattened. Sylvain doesn’t hear voices or see ghosts, no. But he feels the wishes of the dead as acutely as his king. To see Dimitri’s suffering is to spur on Sylvain’s own. The ghosts want Dimitri dead, Miklan wants Sylvain dead. It’s the same. _Your Majesty,_ he thinks, hearing the cracks in his voice as if he were audibly speaking, _we’re the same, finally. Do you think we can be friends again? I want to die for you. I want to die with you. I want to be able to reach you again._

Felix comes over. “What the fuck is this?” he says.

Goddess. Sylvain doesn’t have the wherewithal for this right now. But that has never mattered.

“Alright, gather ‘round, everyone. Your Highness, would you help me explain?”

Felix snorts derisively, but His Majesty does help Sylvain.

* * *

No one is able to come up with a satisfactory explanation for Sylvain’s predicament. Life goes on. Sylvain lives with an ever present anxiety about the state of things back home, about what’s changing without him, wondering if his friends are worried for him. Once, he thinks of Flayn and how she and Seteth must be relieved. Claude from the Golden Deer might be disappointed, he played chess with Sylvain a few times a week. Sylvain had a great time with him. Rarely has an opponent been so difficult to beat.

Sylvain is stuck in a time period he doesn’t belong in, forced to watch life as a complete outsider. It’s not new for him, to feel that he doesn’t belong and he isn’t right for these people. For this world, or any other. All of the Lions except for Felix and Dimitri attempt to make him comfortable. Ingrid forces him to hang out with her and Mercedes insists on knitting him sleeping gloves for winter. After a few months, Felix concedes and spars with Sylvain every day - more softly than Sylvain thought Felix knew how, he tells Sylvain he’s too weak in this body, he’s got to refine his fighting. He avoids Other Sylvain at all costs, and Other Sylvain does the same.

It’s not that he’s unhappy here. In fact, he enjoys himself often, and relishes in seeing his friends so mature and bright, despite a war. But he does loathe the war, the people who started it, what they did to his king. He fights for Dimitri, but is kept out of the riskier parts of war to avoid screwing with the… timeline, or whatever. 

They go to Ailell. Felix and Ingrid don’t want him to come, would prefer he stay at the monastery rather than uselessly overheat, but he insists. Sneaks behind, actually. Rodrigue joins them there. Caspar, for reasons Sylvain is not privy to, defected from the Empire at some point and runs off one day with Mercedes. Afterward, she confesses that the Death Knight is her baby brother. Their army continues to make its way to Adrestia. Sylvain’s only a reserve (this Sylvain, the 20 year old. 25 year old Sylvain is in the front lines) at the Myrddin bridge, but he sees Ferdinand fall by Dimitri’s own hand. Lorenz, Dimitri nearly kills, but Byleth intervenes. Lorenz joins them. Dedue returns. Dimitri’s eyes shine for the first time since Sylvain was thrown in time.

Dimitri doesn’t get any better throughout this, but he treats Sylvain alright. Sometimes, Sylvain convinces him to come to bed with him, because he never sleeps. A couple of times, Sylvain tricks Dimitri into letting Sylvain bathe him. Out of all the times, all the possible reasons, older Sylvain comes with them to clean Dimitri up. It seems Sylvain’s hatred of dirt knows no bounds, no limitations of time or space. Dimitri doesn’t let anyone else, not even his Sylvain, close to him. Sylvain is allowed to soothe him after nightmares, just barely. Dimitri wakes up howling and thrashing, in the throes of delusion. It’s dangerous for Sylvain to be there, and Dimitri says so. Ingrid does, Annette does, Dedue does. Everyone does. But not twenty-five year old Sylvain. He knows the truth.

They’re right. It is dangerous. But the kicker is: Sylvain does not care. He can die comforting Dimitri, it won’t matter. He shouldn’t even be here.

Sylvain and Sylvain never speak to each other. Not once. They mutually try not to look each other's way, ever. 

Of course, it doesn’t last. Good things never do. He catches Old Him watching him brush Dimitri’s hair one day. He’s glaring. Not in his usual passive aggressive manner, he is sporting a true glare that even Felix might approve of. Sylvain has an ugly urge to egg him on, but Dimitri is relatively settled right now. He’s never calm, but Sylvain can tell his ghosts are not too loud for him. So Sylvain ignores Old Him, and carries on.

Later, he wakes from another nightmare. As usual, he wanders. Like that night many months ago, he finds himself outside the cathedral. There’s yelling inside. 

“Right, so that - little _shit_ gets to be with you, but I can’t?” That’s… himself. Old Him is _yelling_ at Dimitri. “I know you’re not you, you’re ‘dead.’ But I don’t understand why - why you care about him now. You never let me do any of that in the academy. Why do you only want me - him - now, dammit?”

Dimitri’s voice is lifeless. “When did you ever try to do any of that? And he - he doesn’t give me any choice.”

“Your Highness, you could snap a man twice your size in half. You have. You could stop him whenever you want. But you don’t. Somehow you’d rather push me away than a brat.”

“You should stay away from me! He’s an anomaly, it won’t last! He will never suffer for being with me!

“That’s bullshit! He sees you everyday wondering what the fuck happened to you and...having fucking nightmares over you because he couldn’t save you. I couldn’t save you.”

“...That’s right. You couldn’t. Get out of my sight!”

Old Sylvain storms out of the cathedral, gasping. He looks furious. He’s already upset… it won’t matter if Sylvain makes it worse, will it?

“Hey, you. What’d you do? Why doesn’t he want you?” He can’t restrain the vicious smile on his face.

Old Him looks at him, enraged. “Oh, nothing. I tried to talk to him, that’s all. But now I understand my place. I wish you’d die, by the way.”

Sylvain the twenty-year old laughs. And laughs, a bit manic. When he’s done, Old Him is gone.

* * *

Dimitri plans to march on Gronder Field. The place they all fought at for the Battle of Eagle and Lion. Because the Goddess is twisted, Claude is there. 

Sylvain witnesses the house leaders in all their deity-like glory. Here, that is what they feel like. Gods. Edelgard seems remorseful, despite all she insists on doing. Claude, angry and bewildered. Dimitri… strangely apathetic, for a man who is declaring his intention to behead hundreds.

Dimitri strikes Bernadetta down from the archer’s hill she is stationed at. He does not use Areadbhar for this, but throws a broken javelin at her. His aim is perfect, strength inhuman. Dead, she lay there, with a javelin inside her chest. Dimitri doesn’t bother taking it back. Sylvain feels sick. He likes Bernadetta. A lot of his stressors at school have been soothed by reading her stories. And Dimitri… barely even saw her. Sylvain doesn’t think he even knew it was her.

Sylvain wants to cry for her.

Across the battlefield, to the right, he sees Hubert cast Banshee on Ignatz. He falls, and doesn’t get up.

Raphael howls somewhere to Sylvain’s left. His fighting becomes erratic and he doesn’t watch where he’s going or who he’s near. He rams his gauntlets at Dedue, and almost hits him, but Ingrid strikes Raphael through with Lúin. Marianne, who joined the Lions in school, cries inconsolably and tries to heal his wound. Ingrid apologizes and apologizes, to Marianne and Raphael both, but Marianne’s not upset with her.

“Reall-y,” she hiccups. “I promise I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at this - this war! These are our friends, why are we doing this?”

Sylvain has no answer for her. Old Him probably does, though. Sylvain doesn’t belong here, feels it more in this moment than in all the months he’s spent here.

They win the battle of Gronder Field.

Some random girl throws herself at Dimitri after the field is clear. She stabs him. He falls.

Tears spill down Sylvain’s face instantly. He finally wretches into the grass, screaming. He passes out.

* * *

Sylvain wakes in the early morning, sun just beginning to rise visible through the window. He looks around. He’s in the infirmary. Manuela stands two cots away tending to someone he doesn’t know.

“What the hell happened?” he asks, rubbing the crust from his eyes.

Manuela turns around. “You tell me. Edelgard found you unconscious next to your own vomit outside the cathedral.”

“Uh… Edelgard did? That’s not right...”

Wait. Manuela looks younger than he remembers. Less scars, too. “Where’s His Highness?” 

“I don’t know. But before you go anywhere, you’re going to tell me what happened, and I’m going to tell you how to fix it.”

* * *

He’s searching for Dimitri. It’s a Saturday, apparently, so he won’t see him in class. Sylvain heads to the training grounds. He spots Ignatz. Ignatz who died just yesterday.

“Hey, Ignatz!” He calls out.

Ignatz jumps up from his easel, a stray line of paint marring his canvas. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, man. I just wanted to ask if you take commissions right now?”

Ignatz lights up. “Yes, I do! But it might take a little while, studies and all. What were you thinking of?”

Sylvain wasn’t thinking of anything. It’s just that he’s rich and Ignatz is talented and definitely doesn’t ever ask to be paid what he should. So he’ll make sure he gets what he deserves. He ends up commissioning the works, a portrait of the Blue Lions, and Byleth is okay with it. Ignatz makes so much money he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Later, he finds Bernadetta too. She’s in her room, as usual. He raps her door and she squeaks. “Professor, Ingrid, wh-whoever you are, I’m not coming out! I’m happy here!”

“Uh, no, haha, it’s Sylvain. You don’t have to open up if you don’t want to. I just wanted to ask you something.”

“S-sylvain?! If this is about that book, don’t even t-think about it!”

“Aw, not completely? I just wanted to sit down sometime and ask about your writing process, but it’s cool.”

He’s truly interested, but really, he wants to spend some time with her. Seeing her die haunts him. The way she died, too… Sylvain wants to make the most of his time with her. He doesn’t think the past months were just a bad dream. He knows they were real. He still doesn’t know why, or how, but a future like that is too bleak for him. Tolerating his own dark future is one thing, but seeing everyone else he knows follow similar paths lights a fire in his stomach.

“O-oh… are you _sure_ you aren’t making fun of me?” she asks, louder, which means she’s come closer to the door.

* * *

His Highness is at the training grounds; Sylvain can hear him grunt against the dummies from outside. He’s not completely sure what to do with himself. When he first awoke, he was so rife with grief and panic once he remembered what had happened, he needed to see his prince right away. But the search has given him time to think - meeting Ignatz, Bernadetta, seeing Raphael beg Ingrid for a meat eating competition - now he’s a little more grounded. He is lucid enough to be hesitant.

As far as his own time is concerned, yesterday, Dimitri was patting the heads of children at the market. He was buying them meat, fish and fruit to feed the animals around Garreg Mach. Little boys and girls were looking at him and seeing a vision that would dictate how they lived their lives, how they dreamed about their futures. And then the next day, Sylvain woke up to gruff, silent Dimitri. Who became rampaging, murderous Dimitri. Who despite that, still let Sylvain wash his hair, take him to bed. Who died for a stupid reason, full of ire and no peace in sight. 

He’s frightening. But even so, he needs support. His heart is sweeter than ripe peaches.

Sylvain enters the training grounds. He had thought he was ready, but as soon as he sees His Highness’s sweaty, short hair and soaked dress shirt, he knows he was wrong. He can’t breathe. Hot wetness wells up in his eyes, before he is able to register it, and then it flows and flows down his cheeks and chin and neck. 

Dimitri drops his lance in surprise. He whirls around, eyes sharp and manic for a split second, and then soft. Sylvain doesn’t know what set him off at first until it becomes clear to him that he’s actually whimpering quietly. 

“Sylvain? What is the matter?” he asks, his voice princely and pristine. Not a touch of its future gruffness. 

“Oh shit, sorry. I’m good, I just, uh, I don’t know. Been a weird couple of days,” Sylvain says. His tears have abated, thankfully. He clears his throat.

“I just wanted to make sure you knew that...or, tell you to be safe. I’m always here for you, y’know? Dedue too, the Professor. Everyone, okay? So...don’t be by yourself. And be safe.”

Dimitri steps closer to him as he speaks, stopping barely a few centimeters away from Sylvain. He’s shorter than Sylvain again. He settles his hands on Sylvain’s shoulders, squeezes them gently. A careful show of his strength, for which Sylvain is a tiny bit proud. Dimitri struggles to control himself. Sylvain’s arms drift down Dimitri’s sides to his waist. It feels a crime to break this spell of silence, so he whispers. “Understand, Your Highness?”

Dimitri tilts his head up, meets Sylvain’s forehead with his own. They press together, rubbing. He, too, is whispering. “I think so.”

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of things:  
> 1) Old Sylvain wasn't the focus of this fic so I didn't get into it, but older Dimivain was doing their repressed slowburn thing, Sylvain was just terrified of his feral bff.  
> 2) i'm just gonna put these in the collection for dmvn week still i guess??? bc they WERE written for that ,  
> anyway @sylvainplath on twt comments appreciated xoxo have a nice day


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